


Marvelous

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Merpeople, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11202942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fingon finds new beginnings on the beach.





	Marvelous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saurgristiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saurgristiel/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for saurgristiel’s “13. Merfolk. (Mer) Maedhros/(human) Fingon. Mae's still got scars tho, maybe an outcast mer. Fingon finds him hurt on the beach? Saves him from mean seals/orcas? Mer!Fingon keeps lonely, scarred human!Mae company?” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s by the sink doing dishes, looking out over the wide vista of the ocean through the window, when he hears the shrill battle cry. It turns his bones cold as ice, and for one horrible moment, he’s frozen still by it, by memories. Then Fingon drops his plate into the water and runs for the door, grabbing his sword out of the sheath hung by it on the way. He came here for peace, but didn’t leave himself helpless.

The orcs, thank the Valar, aren’t surrounding his little hut, but swarmed about the beach, and he sees now what kind they are—not the hulking, black masses that walk on gnarled legs, but thick sea orcs with long fins like seals. They’re just up the sand, still in the ebbing tide, and waving their stone clubs about triumphantly over their prize. A figure lies before them, facedown and not moving. Fingon’s chest clenches—too late. The cry was of victory, not the start of a battle—he missed it all. But he rushes forward anyway—he can at least stop them desecrating a body on his beach.

Fingon runs at them with his own shout, sword drawn, and the nearest of the four turns to look at him, beady eyes wide in its malformed skull. On his long, taught legs, Fingon’s crossed the distance in a heartbeat, and he brings his sword down before they can flee—the nearest twists away, but not far enough, and Fingon slices right into its side. It wails in distress, rolling down the sand towards the sea, while another comes at him with its club. He dodges easily—they only come up to his waist and move too sluggishly, their tails not meant to move on land, and it’s easier to kick the second orc after the first. The other two bolt with horror-struck crowing, and Fingon waves his sword after, making such a clamour as to warn them never to return. 

Their bony heads have just disappeared below the surface when the body on the beach twitches. Fingon’s head jerks back to look, but it’s still after that. Given a proper chance, Fingon can see what it is: one of the merfolk, long and lovely, even limp and slick with sand. Its shimmering tale, half licked in water, matches its copper hair, its skin lightly tanned and littered with dark freckles, stretched across broad shoulders and long limbs. One hand is missing, cut off at the wrist, but the stump is healed over—it must be an old injury. It’s covered in scars, some faded, some fresh. There’s too much crimson blood for Fingon’s comfort, but he clamps down on the part of him that wants to look away. Instead, he kneels down and slips his hands around the creature, gently rolling it over.

He nudges the being onto its back to reveal a strikingly handsome face, plush lips parted and dark lashes down against high cheeks. A man, he thinks, with a mess of bangs. The man’s hair is uneven, cut jaggedly, one ear elegantly pointed and the other cut off at the end. His strong chest is a mass of muscles and bruising, dipping down a lean stomach into a subtle brush of scales.

The merman is beautiful, and, to Fingon’s great relief, breathing. Whether he needs oxygen or air, he also needs help, and Fingon has no intention of bringing the merman deeper, where the sea orcs likely lie in wait. It leaves only one option, so Fingon slides his arms beneath the merman’s back, digging through the sand, to scoop him up into waiting arms.

The merman is heavy, but nothing Fingon can’t handle. His tail drapes limply over Fingon’s arm, which will have to be enough—Fingon needs that hand to still grip the handle of his sword. But his other fingers spread across the merman’s shoulder, and he turns awkwardly back towards his hut. He only hopes the blaring midday sun won’t dry the merman out too much by the time they reach it. 

He walks back as quickly as he can, wondering the whole way what to do when he gets there. He’s tended others in battle before, though he was never a medic, but he’s never even _met_ any of the merfolk. He’s been alone for _years_. He shoulders his way through the still ajar door and stalks over to the bathtub, glad, for once, that his whole hut is only one big room. He absently drops the sword on the way. It’s a relief to finally set the merman down in the porcelain basin. Fingon rearranges the merman carefully afterwards, resting his head against the rim and trying not to bend his tail too much. Then Fingon turns on the water, and it bursts, pleasantly cool, onto the merman’s naval. 

While the tub fills, Fingon finds a towel to dry off his arms, then heads for the medicine cabinet, pulling out supplies one by one. He’s reading the label of some disinfectant when a hoarse voice lets out a little hiss, and Fingon stiffens, rising to look over his shoulder.

The merman’s squinting foggily at the ceiling. Fingon walks over immediately, coming to turn off the tap and set the medical supplies on the floor. The merman’s eyes fall slowly to Fingon, and there they hold fast. The merman’s attractive body draws tighter, to which Fingon soothing tells him, “You’re safe here. My name’s Fingon, and this is my home.”

The merman slowly lifts his head off the rim. He glances about, then fixes back on Fingon and mutters, “Maedhros.”

At first, Fingon thinks that must be some foreign language, perhaps merspeak for ‘hello,’ and then he realizes it has ancient Sindarin roots and must be a name. ‘Maedhros’ lifts his single hand from the tub, and Fingon lets it reach and tangle into his hair. His breath catches as Maedhros closes into a fist, then uses the grip to tug Fingon down, close enough that their noses almost touch. Maedhros seems to look _deep_ into him, examining far beneath the surface. Fingon allows it. He meets Maedhros’ gaze as strongly as he can. 

Then Maedhros slowly releases his grip, sliding his long fingers free, and murmurs, “You are a warrior, I can tell.” Fingon lifts a dark brow but doesn’t answer, and Maedhros eyes the golden ribbon that ties up Fingon’s dark hair, both ends of its bow trailing down one shoulder. Maedhros curiously fingers the silken fabric before asking, “Am I your prisoner?”

“No,” Fingon answers, loud and clear. “I found you on the beach, beset by sea orcs, and I brought you in to tend your wounds. But my hut isn’t far from the beach, and you’re free to go as you may—I’ll even carry you if you like.”

“You carried me here?” Maedhros asks, looking mildly surprised at all of it, but in a reserved sort of way—this man’s been through much, Fingon’s sure. Fingon nods, still leaning close and remembering all too well the weight of Maedhros in his arms. Maedhros looks away, eyes downcast, and mutters bitterly, “You needn’t have gone through the trouble.”

“It was no trouble,” Fingon insists. In fact, in a way, it felt good to _do something_ again, better now to have conversation, as little as it is. Maedhros doesn’t reply, and Fingon takes the pause to look back at his supplies, choosing first a disinfectant. He lifts it up to Maedhros, offering, “Let me tend your wounds.”

Maedhros gives him a genuinely puzzled look and asks, “Why would you bother?”

Fingon doesn’t answer, because he isn’t quite sure how—it’s just the _right_ thing to do. He uncaps the little bottle and pours some into his hand, then leans across the tub to the fresh cut on Maedhros’ shoulder, already cleaned by the water. He explains as he gently dabs some of it on with his bare hand, “This should also have sealant properties, to aid the natural healing process. It’s an old recipe.”

“Merfolk generally heal wall,” Maehdros offers, “though I’m sure I look like living evidence to the contrary.”

“You look beautiful,” Fingon says before he can stop himself. He catches Maedhros’ startled look in the corner of his eye, and he deliberately doesn’t look at the blush that grows there, instead concentrating on the toned chest beneath his fingers. It’s no hardship to work on Maedhros’ body, and purely because Maedhros doesn’t look like he believes it, Fingon insists, “In fact, you’re probably the most attractive person I’ve ever seen.”

Maedhros’ hand moves towards Fingon again, this time ducking beneath his outstretched arms to touch his chest, square between the open flaps of his white tunic. Maedhros brushes softly over his skin, which makes him have to suppress a shiver, and Maedhros murmurs, “You are very handsome as well.”

It’s Fingon’s turn to blush. He tries to ignore how close they are and instead rubs a new ointment over the purplish bruise across Maedhros’ stomach. It’s thick enough to survive the water, which pools just beneath Maedhros’ brown nipples. Fingon has to roll up his sleeves to avoid getting drenched again. Then Maedhros presses, “Are you here alone?”

“Yes. I moved away after the war.” He finishes a few final touches and bids, “Roll over,” even though it’ll be a bit difficult in the tub, but Maedhros ignores him. If Fingon knew any more of merfolk biology, he’d press it, but for all he knows, they heal on their own, so instead he shakes the water off his fingers and asks, “Are you hungry.”

Maedhros just nods. Fingon stands up and, a few steps towards the kitchenette, realizes he has no idea what merfolk eat. Probably fish. Or maybe they’re friends with fish and would be appalled at the idea. 

He plucks an apple out of the bowl just to be safe and brings it back, handing it to Maedhros’ outstretched hand. Maedhros takes it with a little, “Thank you.” Then he brings it to his mouth to bite right into, and Fingon stares unnaturally long at the crunch of his teeth and the dribbling of a thin, clear juice over his chin, not enough there to drip down into the water. 

Maedhros eats for a few quiet minutes, while Fingon puts the medicine away and looks for another towel. By the time he returns to the tub, the apple is gone, core and all, and he spends a second staring down at Maedhros’ intent gaze before coughing and announcing, “I’ll keep an eye out for the orcs, if you like, or I could carry you a ways off, hopefully away from them, where you can swim back to the right way.”

“There is no right way,” Maedhros tells him unblinkingly. “I have nothing to go back to; I’m already an outcast. I was touched by the ‘evil’ of Man before this, if you’ll pardon the expression—my kind can be rather obtuse—and I wouldn’t be welcomed back.”

Fingon doesn’t at all contest those evils. He’s seen them himself, but still mutters, “That’s awful.” He understands, of course, why merfolk generally avoid those on land, but he wouldn’t have thought others who did come into contact were shunned. He feels a certain sorrow for Maedhros, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

Maedhros simply shrugs and says, “Not really. Because it means I can stay here, if you’ll allow it.”

Fingon blinks. For a moment, he thinks he’s misheard. Then he slowly clarifies, “In my bathtub?”

“I can be out of the water,” Maedhros says, and now he looks a little unsure, which doesn’t sit comfortably on his princely features. “But this would make a decent bed for me, and I can still smell and hear the sea. It’s just... forgive me, but it’s been a long time since I knew anyone that thought me beautiful.”

“I can’t imagine that.” 

Maedhros’ lips lift in the first smile Fingon’s seen on him, even if it’s small and tentative. He murmurs quietly, “Merfolk like to be admired.” He pauses, and his eyes flicker down Fingon’s body, before he adds, “If you come here, we can explore it.”

Fingon doesn’t even hesitate. He walks right over, full of wonderment, and leans down—Maedhros grabs him suddenly and pulls at his tunic—Fingon goes toppling right over the edge, but Maedhros is there to catch him with both arms. Maedhros guides him into place, his thighs straddling Maedhros’ crotch and Maedhros’ exquisite tail draping over one leg to pin him down. Fingon’s hands land on Maedhros’ shoulders, while Maedhros’ wraps around Fingon’s middle. Fingon stares down, entranced, while Maedhros breathlessly asks, “May I stay?”

Fingon nods and goes in for a kiss.


End file.
